


Fireplace

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASMR, Autonomous sensory meridian response, Comfort, Comfort No Hurt, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Winter, fireplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A winter's day on a bleak and dark January. John is tired of freezing in 221B and decides to lay a fire in the fireplace. Sherlock returns from spending most of the day outside and finds warmth and comfort waiting for him.<br/>A little piece of domestic fluff inspired by a drawing that was posted on tumblr (picture and link in the main text).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireplace

**Author's Note:**

> YuXavier drew this wonderful comforting picture, and though it's based on the Russian movies, my mind immediately went to BBC Sherlock. This fic is the result.

[ ](http://yuxavier.deviantart.com/gallery/)

 

It was a bitterly cold January in London, but it was not a pleasant winter day. The clouds that were hanging above the city only made it damp and uncomfortable, and the snow that had fallen earlier in the week had turned to slush. All the Christmas cheer had gone with the lights and decorations, and a chill wind was blowing through the streets, occasionally making itself felt as a draft through the sash windows of 221B Baker Street. Even with the central heating cranked up to the maximum setting, the flat felt as welcoming as a pile of bricks.

That was before John had decided to clean out the fireplace in the living room, removing a variety of objects from the firebox – a silk slipper, where had _that_ come from? - and checking the flue for obstructions. After he was convinced that he wouldn't accidentally burn something important and that there was no danger that he would suffocate from carbon monoxide poisoning, he carefully laid a fire the way his grandfather had taught him.

John hunkered down in front of the fireplace, scrunching up some old paper and putting kindling on it, then using a burning piece of kindling to light the paper from both sides. He watched with almost childlike delight as the fire caught the paper, then spread to the kindling on top of it, and he was soon able to add the first pieces of firewood. Not long after, he had a good fire going, and the warmth was radiating out into the room now filled with the scent of burning ash and oak.

Satisfied, he went into the kitchen to make himself a good cuppa. He switched the kettle on, then got a small plate and arranged a handful of biscuits on it. He planned on sitting down in his comfy chair and not moving for quite some time, so he wanted all his creature comforts within reach. While the tea was brewing, he went up the stairs to his room – Christ it was cold there! - then hurried back with a book chosen at random in his hand. Tea, biscuits, and a book by the fireside, just what the doctor ordered. And if by any chance he would doze off, well, that was fine too. The fire would keep going for a good two hours.

Belatedly, he realised that they apparently didn't own a fire poker. No matter, there was always Sherlock's harpoon, and John decided that it would do in a pinch. In fact, that would be even better than a fire poker, since it would extend his reach so that he wouldn't have to get up to use it. He chuckled at the thought of Sherlock's face when he came home and saw John misusing the harpoon in this way.

John didn't know where Sherlock had gone to. He might have decided to spend a day at the morgue, or Scotland Yard, or maybe observing a suspect. John wasn't surprised that Sherlock had gone out. He'd been increasingly irritated by the weather, by the lack of cases, by being cooped up in 221B, and he hadn't slept properly in days. John shared that irritation to some extent, but right now, he felt content. He took the harpoon and prodded the fire a bit, shifting one of the logs further to the centre, then leaned it on the fireplace within easy reach and picked up his book. A delighted giggle escaped him when he realised that he'd grabbed his old copy of “Moby Dick”, a wonderful coincidence. He took a sip of his tea, then opened the book and began to read. Five minutes later, he was asleep.

 

He awoke with a start when the front door slammed close and the heavy footfall on the stairs announced the return of the Consulting Detective. “It is utterly unbearable how stupid some people...”, Sherlock began as he opened the flat door, but whatever unbearably stupid thing he wanted to share fled his mind when he saw John looking at him, face lit by the flickering fire.

“… oh”, was all he managed to say then, but John was already out of his chair and approaching Sherlock.

“God, Sherlock, have you been outside all this time? You're shivering, and your lips are blue, here, let me... “ John reached up to touch Sherlock's face, then peeled off Sherlock's black leather gloves and felt his hands. “Yep, you got yourself hypothermic, you idiot.” Sherlock had not felt cold until now, running on adrenalin as he usually was, but as John's warm hands held his, he realised that his core temperature had indeed dropped quite considerably and that John's hands were rather nice on his.

John frowned. “Get out of that suit and into the shower, we need to warm you up. Then put on clean clothes, and when you're done, get back here and I'll make some tea to warm your insides. Idiot”, he repeated.

“You laid a fire”, was all Sherlock could say.

“Yes, yes I did, it was cold and I thought we could use the comfort. Don't worry, I got everything out of the fireplace before I lit it.”

Sherlock frowned. “I'm not worried”, he said, but John turned him around by the shoulders, took off his coat and pushed him towards the bathroom. “Shower, Sherlock. Now.”

“Yes, doctor”, Sherlock acquiesced while John hung up the damp coat on the hanger by the door. Soon, John could hear the hot water running. He went back to the fireplace to put more logs on the fire and, taking his now-cold tea , went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Then John got the blanket off the sofa and draped it onto Sherlock's chair by the fire. “Silly git”, he muttered, “running around outside in this weather like he hasn't got the brains he was born with. He probably deleted hypothermia.”

 

When Sherlock came back into the living room, hair still damp from the shower, he was wearing his customary lounge-around-in clothes, pyjama bottoms, a t-shirt and a dressing-gown, and John was glad he'd had the foresight to get the blanket. “Sit”, he ordered Sherlock, pointing at the chair. Sherlock complied. John wrapped the blanket around Sherlock and pressed a mug of hot tea into his hands. He was glad to see that Sherlock's skin was looking less pale, and a brief touch to Sherlock's face confirmed that he was getting warmer.

“Let's just hope you haven't caught a cold”, John told him, half-concerned, half-amused. “You'd make a terrible patient. Now wrap up and drink your tea. Try to relax a bit, ok? Do some thinking or whatever it is you do when you don't move for hours. I'll be here reading my book, so don't think you can just get up and waltz out of here without me knowing.”

John settled back into his chair, getting comfortable, and picked up his book again, studying Sherlock over the rim of it while pretending to read, until he was sure that Sherlock was indeed following his orders.

Sherlock simply nodded, smiling slightly, holding the mug in both hands and breathing in the fragrant steam. He did feel a lot better after the shower, and the cosy warmth and smell of the fire warmed him both physically and mentally. It was quiet in the flat for once. There were no exploding experiments or case-related deductions to make, there was just the far-off sound of traffic outside like waves on a beach, the crackling of the fire, the occasional rustle of paper as John turned over a page, and for all that he was unused to it, Sherlock felt himself calm down.

 

At first, he thought the shivers he felt now were still attributable to being too cold for too long, but then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and a long-forgotten childhood memory resurfaced. The last time he'd felt this he was small, perhaps five years old, and intensely concentrated on a drawing, pencil in hand and tongue sticking out, when suddenly the act of drawing became more important than the actual drawing, and he had listened to the scratching of pencil on paper while his scalp and neck tingled and shivers of pleasure were running up and down his spine, like goosebumps on the inside of his skin.

He had forgotten this feeling, and was completely surprised by its return. He put down the tea and closed his eyes, wrapping the blanket closer around him and savouring the warmth and the pleasant shivers his nervous system provided him with, relaxing into them and into comfort.

 

After finishing a chapter of his book, John looked up to check on Sherlock, and he had to smile. Sherlock was – and there was no other word John could find – he was cuddling the blanket, face relaxed, breathing in a soft rhythm, very obviously asleep. John sighed happily and nodded. He had finally found the thing to calm Sherlock down. There was, after all, nothing like a good warming fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, YuXavier, for creating the drawing that inspired me to write this, and for allowing me to post the resulting fic here.


End file.
